


something we can't put our finger on at all

by kaiyen



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, One Shot, S01E06 Rare Species, geralt's a big softie we KNOW this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:06:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22226851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiyen/pseuds/kaiyen
Summary: All he can hear are Roach's hoof-beats against dry, trodden earth, no soft twangs of lute strings or Jaskier’s incessant chatter. His back feels inexplicably exposed – on longer journeys with the bard, he’d offer Jaskier a ride out of pity (or kindness, possibly, though he would never admit it) and he’d lean against Geralt’s back as easy as anything, facing backwards so he could continue his newest composition all the while. Something stirs in his gut.Witchers don’t feel.What a load of shit.or; after parting ways, jaskier immediately gets himself into trouble and geralt apologises
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 949





	something we can't put our finger on at all

**Author's Note:**

> im sick and have a new fixation so guess we're here!
> 
> anyway let me know if there are any mistakes n stuff and i'll fix 'em! also i've only seen the series so basc all my knowledge comes from there. this kinda disregards canon following rare species but also not in such a way that it is an AU u kno. it just kinda... happens

It doesn’t occur to Geralt just how harsh he was on Jaskier until he’s come back down the mountain. He’s gone further than that, in fact, and is already on his way to another town, another monster, already sat on Roach’s back as she walks a fair pace. She steadfastly stares ahead silently, and Geralt has a feeling she’s in a mood with him.

All he can hear are her hoof-beats against dry, trodden earth, no soft twangs of lute strings or Jaskier’s incessant chatter. His back feels inexplicably exposed – on longer journeys with the bard, he’d offer Jaskier a ride out of pity (or kindness, possibly, though he would never admit it) and he’d lean against Geralt’s back as easy as anything, facing backwards so he could continue his newest composition all the while. Something stirs in his gut.

Witchers don’t feel.

What a load of shit.

For many years, Geralt would have been inclined to agree with the rumour. Emotion was a weakness, after all, and all his mutations, purposefully and decisively created, aimed to make him strong. Then later, years of being called a monster drilled into his mind, he’d buy into the idea that he could feel – feel the rage and power and thrill that came with monstrosity.

Anger, Geralt knows intimately. It seems more and more that anger is the very nature of his being, his natural reaction to just about anything. Anger at being called a beast in Blaviken, anger at Queen Calanthe for her initial ignorance, anger at Yennefer, at Jaskier. Vicious, and cruel, and above all, safe.

What stirs in Geralt’s gut is not anger. It’s guilt. Regret. Concern, even. He remembers how Jaskier’s voice shook as they parted ways, and how he abandoned him there and headed back on his own. Jaskier, who notoriously gets himself into trouble wherever he goes.

It’s enough to make him pull on Roach’s reins. “Stop, Roach,” he murmurs.

Oddly, Geralt finds he does not find the feelings unfamiliar – he knows them. Guilt, he felt after his cruelty to Jaskier during the whole djinn incident. Regret when they had parted ways before, concern as Jaskier spat blood down his front. And just like his anger, he had felt it all so easily, with such intensity. Funny how all of it leads back to Jaskier.

Geralt clenches his jaw, taps his foot against Roach’s flank. She turns around, and before he even asks her to, begins to gallop back towards the town at the foot of the mountain. She whinnies, a determination in her step like she’s glad Geralt’s finally pulled his head out of his arse.

He remembers once, a long time ago, over-hearing Jaskier discuss love with a few women in the corner of a tavern. He was drunk, offered a steady supply of ale since Geralt had returned from slaying a bilge hag on the cusp of town.

 _What of love, Jaskier?_ they had asked, _Where’s your great romantic ballad?_

Geralt had rolled his eyes from where he sat out of sight, and heard Jaskier scoff. He told them he thought love ballads were too simple, too common.

 _Surely love is not easy,_ one of the women had said.

Geralt had turned to watch Jaskier smile softly, still unnoticed. _It depends_ , Jaskier had said. _Sometimes, yes, the act of loving is hard. But I don’t think that it’s the content of love itself, more the circumstances. Love itself is as easy as anything_.

As Roach’s hooves thunder down the dirt path, Geralt does something he has never done before – he dwells on something Jaskier has said. Geralt suspects Jaskier falls in love everywhere he goes, with townsfolk, fellow travellers, even some of the more fetching creatures they encounter. He’s not oblivious either, he knows Jaskier has been just as swayed by men as he has women. He is exactly the type of human a younger Geralt would scoff at – emotional, irrational – but now, all he can think about is the stupid little smile Jaskier gives when one of his bad jokes spur a huffed laugh out of Geralt, the soft concern in his eyes the times Geralt had not returned unscathed, the gentle deftness of his fingers against the strings of his lute on late nights under the stars. It’s warm, and pulls at his chest.

And Jaskier was right, it is the easiest thing in the world.

 _Fuck_ , Geralt thinks.

*

Geralt returns to Caingoen, at the foot of the Dragon Mountains, hoping Jaskier followed the same path down the mountain as himself. He recognises a few faces from their hunting party as Roach trots into the town, which he takes as a good sign.

He ties Roach up outside the tavern, the muddy ground squelching under his feet as he dismounts. He offers her a handful of oats, and once she has finished them, she nudges him in the direction of the tavern door with her snout.

He shoots her a flippant, half-hearted glare. “I know,” he says, and heads into the tavern.

The tavern is bustling, and even with his fairly imposing presence, few turn to look at him. Geralt remembers a time when his entrance to any small-town tavern would turn heads, instil an air of discomfort throughout the patrons. It is less so now. He supposes he probably has Jaskier to thank for that.

Though he’d never admit it, _Toss A Coin To Your Witcher_ is rather catchy.

Geralt pushes his way through the crowd surrounding the bar and flags down the barman.

“You seen a bard here?” he asks. “Brown hair, blue eyes, won’t shut up.”

The barman straightens. “What’s it to you, witcher?”

Geralt resists the urge to roll his eyes. He deposits a small bag of gold on the bar.

The man takes it, and concedes. He nods to a door behind him. “Try out back.”

It’s not that Geralt is a pessimist, nor that he really expects Jaskier to have found trouble so soon, but his gut twists with unease as he heads towards the backdoor. Life has a funny way of giving Geralt precisely what he asks for, even if he doesn’t mean it. The Child Surprise, the djinn taking Jaskier’s voice once he had wished for peace.

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._

He sets his jaw, places a hand on the hilt of a knife where it sits sheathed in his belt. He can hear voices as he approaches the door, and opens it slowly.

“Where’s your witcher now, huh?”

“Please, please-” it’s Jaskier’s voice, laden with fear, and it’s all Geralt needs to drop his hand from his knife in favour of his sword, and storms out there to intervene.

A man presses Jaskier against the wall, a knife held to his throat. He’s relatively short, but broad enough that even without his weapon, he’d surely be able to take the likes of Jaskier on with ease.

Geralt presses the flat of his blade against the man’s neck and feels him freeze beneath it. The knife falls to the floor at his and Jaskier’s feet. “Here,” he replies, answering the man’s question. He pushes the man back with his sword, careful not to break skin. The man gulps against the silver.

He spares a glance at Jaskier.

There is a bloody cut across Jaskier’s throat – superficial, unlikely to even leave a scar – but once Jaskier stops staring at him in shock, he touches his fingers to it and stares, fascinated, at the spots of blood on his hand. All Geralt can think of is blood bubbling out of an open throat, of _Jaskier’s_ open throat, and he turns on the man, ready to push the blade clean through his neck.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, and he stops.

The man breathes heavily, spluttering and shaking.

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeats. “Let him go.”

Geralt fixes the man with a cold, hard stare, and the man winces before Geralt drops his sword. The man is motionless for a moment, like he expects at any second to be run through, but after a second he turns tail and bolts. He watches him go.

“What are you doing here?” Jaskier asks behind him.

He turns, taking a step towards him. “Saving your hide, apparently.”

He goes to get a look at Jaskier’s throat, a hand going out to brace his neck. Jaskier flinches away from it, scoffing.

Geralt drops his hand, trying not to dwell on the hurt he feels.

Jaskier breathes a few times, like he’s calming himself down. He wipes his bloodied hand on his trousers. “Why did you stop him?”

“What?” he asks incredulously.

“A couple more minutes, a couple more inches with that knife, you’d have got your blessing.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He tries to force _I didn’t mean it_ out of his lips, but he balks. “Let me see,” he says, begs, softly.

Jaskier watches him carefully, before his shoulders sag and he tilts his head up. Geralt gently prods at the cut, more for his own reassurance than any medical assessment.

“What did you do?” he asks absent-mindedly.

“What did _I_ do?” Jaskier says, frowning. “Oh yes, I forgot, everything’s my fault.” Geralt doesn’t reply, jaw clenching again. He loses the fight as soon as he gains it. “Fucked his daughter.”

“Hm,” Geralt responds before letting him go.

Jaskier rubs his hand over the cut again. “So, will I live?”

“You’re fine.”

“More’s the pity, I suppose,” he replies.

“Stop it,” Geralt bites.

Jaskier puts his hands on his hips, as if he expects Geralt to say more. Geralt feels like his tongue is swollen, can't bring himself to say anything for risk of getting it wrong. Eventually, Jaskier tires of waiting. “Well, this has been such _fun_ , Geralt, but I really must be going.” He begins to head towards the door back into the tavern.

Geralt grabs him by the shoulder before he can go. Jaskier shoves it off, swinging around to face him. “What? I can look after myself.”

“Sure you can,” he says, glancing at the dropped knife.

Jaskier stares at him incredulously. “What do you want me to do, Geralt? Beg you to take me back? Oh, _Geralt_ ,” he says, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead in an imitation of swooning, voice pitched-up, “I am but a poor, weak human bard-”

Geralt pushes him to the wall to shut him up. Jaskier drops the act, but none of the underlying anger.

“Why are you here, Geralt? I thought you’d left,” he says. “If you’ve come back just to get me to stroke your ego, you-”

“I came to apologise!” he snaps.

“Apologise?” Jaskier repeats, only in a higher and more mocking tone. “No offence, Geralt, but you’re doing a pretty piss-poor job of it. I don’t know how many apologies you’ve made before-”

“I haven’t,” he interrupts.

“What?”

“I haven’t,” he repeats. “Apologised before.”

Jaskier smiles, a sour, acrid thing that doesn’t suit his face. “Oh! Well, I guess I’m special, then. The great Geralt of Rivia, come to beg forgiveness of a lowly-”

Geralt kisses him. Admittedly, it isn’t his best move, but Jaskier’s lips are soft beneath his own, and he cannot bring himself to regret it. For a short, blessed moment, Jaskier kisses back. As soon as the moment begins, though, it is over, and Jaskier pulls their lips apart. They are still so close, and Geralt can almost feel Jaskier’s forehead against his own.

“Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs, wetting his lips. His voice is softer, relinquishing his anger to the sadness Geralt heard in his voice back on the mountain. “I can’t…I don’t want your pity.”

“Pity?”

Jaskier’s eyelids flutter, and he frowns slightly, closing his eyes. “Don’t use my feelings to make me forgive you,” he says, and when his eyes open, they’re full of tears. “It’s not fair.”

Geralt brings a hand up to cup Jaskier’s jaw, forcing him to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry. I was angry, and I took it out on you, and you were right, it wasn’t fair.” He lets a smile ghost over his lips. “I hadn’t even left Kovir by the time I’d turned around to come find you, to fix things.”

Jaskier stares up at him, wide-eyed and silent.

“I didn’t mean it. Any of it,” Geralt says. “You’re my dearest friend, and I am truly sorry, Jaskier.”

He tilts Jaskier’s jaw up towards him, brushes the pad of his thumb over his cheek.

“It’s not pity,” he tells him, and hopes Jaskier understands.

Jaskier is silent for a moment, and Geralt can see the cogs turning behind his eyes. Slowly, painfully so, his hand comes up to hold the back of Geralt’s head, intertwining his fingers in his hair. He pushes up, as if with caution, to bring their lips back together.

It’s gentle, tender even, all things Geralt so rarely is but wants to be for Jaskier.

When they part, he presses their foreheads together, relishing the heat of Jaskier’s skin against his own. He opens his eyes, looking at Jaskier, and finds him smiling. He smiles back.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me [here](https://sheedys.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you fancy!
> 
> title is from acid ghost's hide my face


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